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The vision of Spain imagined here is the land of bullfighting posters, souvenir castanets and straw donkeys brought back home by the first wave of British package tourists. Hola 1962 – roughly the
year in which this heroically unreconstructed curio first set up shop in an alley just off Oxford Street. Swig bottles of Mahou, Cruzcampo and Estrella Damm – or draught Sam Miguel – while soaking
up the sounds of The Beatles and The Supremes on the vintage jukebox, or glug Spanish house wine from a retro £12.50 a bottle. Otherwise order something classier such as Rioja, cava or a tequila
sangrita shooter. To eat, there are nuts, crisp and pork scratchings; to admire, there’s a scruffy, shambolic interior whose decor was last in vogue when General Franco’s mother was a señorita. And
that’s just how its fans like it.
In the heart of an unbelievably snowy January, it would take a madman to even consider London to be the new Mediterranean hotspot but, that said, Bradley’s Spanish Bar does its best to persuade even the most sane with its lively Hispanic vibe and Spanish lagers on tap… despite the fact that Bradley is more American personal trainer than Spanish bar owner...
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